


Asterisk

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [79]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Comedy, Communication Failure, F/M, Intoxication, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never do say what they mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asterisk

**Author's Note:**

> for resting-meme-face, who prompted (approximately): the TARDIS translation goes on the blink when the Doctor is incapacitated

The TARDIS is in Clara’s living room. It’s a terrible parking job, even by the Doctor’s standards. This is exactly what she wants, clearly, after a long, hard day at UNIT: to not be able to get into her kitchen.

Dumping her bags on the couch and kicking her heels off, she stomps over wearily to bang on the TARDIS door. Planning out a speech about common courtesy. Her fist an inch from the door, she stops. Something’s off. Something has happened, there.

She blinks, shakes her head, wonders if maybe the exhaustion has finally gotten to her. But no, there it is again: the TARDIS blurs, the blue wood and sharp paneling becoming something else entirely, before snapping back into place. Nothing she can wrap her mind around, keep a grip on. Just. _Other,_ and a lingering seasick dread.

Shoes back on, the big fuck-off torch grabbed from the closet. Mobile in her shaking hand, calling, ringing and ringing and oh God please pick up -

_Doctor Whatever’s House of Whenevers, how can I do you who?_

“Is everything alright? The TARDIS is looking a bit. Iffy.” She approaches the ship again, hand tentatively outstretched. Her brain balking.

_Yeah, things are things, you know. Is there a reason you’re calling and not just coming in? We’re ten feet away. Well, technically, also far away. Understanding?“_

Clara fumbles with the mobile, palm gone sweaty. Torch raised like a truncheon. “Is there a reason you’re not coming to the door?”

_I’m sitting down._

“O…kay.” She inches forward. And the TARDIS pulses towards her.

Something warm and friendly washing over her. A positive feeling. Welcoming. Like - a hug? Like the TARDIS is hugging her.

Well, stranger things have happened. She shrugs, puts her phone away, keeps the torch just in case, and opens the door.

The Doctor is, in fact, sitting down. On the floor, surrounded by vinyl records, leaning over an un-amplified turntable. She can hear the faint, tinny sounds of “Black Magic Woman” drifting over. Something happening to it, though, notes shifting. And, ok, ok. It’s inside her head now, not a noise but a presence. A feeling like she’s being sort of condescendingly patted on the back.

“[____]!” the Doctor exclaims. “You are very slow-moving. You’ll have sat down, here.” He sweeps the records into a pile, clearing a space, and pats it.

(That was her name, she thinks; he’d said her name. But more than, other than. That seasickness again, and a tightness in her chest. A feeling like she’s been given a gift, with the smug assumption she won’t know what to do with it.)

“Meaning?” She shakes her head. She’d meant to ask “what”. Close enough.

He pats the floor again. If he’s not worried, then fine. She comes, stepping carefully over the liner notes to _Music for Airports_ , settles down next to him.

“Forgive the communication error,” he says, flipping the record. “The translation matrix is off. Oh, wow, that’s actually what I action: intend, object- nevermind.”

“Fix it?” Clara opts for simplicity. Nudges his arm around her as he leans back.

“Fix itself. After I sober up.” He points to his head, then to the console. The, whatchamacallit, the symbiotic link between him and his ship. “There was a convention. Assembly. No. Hootenanny? Gathering. Close enough.”

She gets the sense that he’d been repeating the same word, but the TARDIS hadn’t been paying enough attention. “Having fun outside me?”

“Recreational activities, remember? We’re not a gestalt entity.” He sighs, stares up at the ceiling; she can see the edges of his exasperated expression out of the corner of her eye.

“Least you could do is give it to me,” she says. And cringes. _Share_ , she’d meant _share_.

He tenses, just a bit, then loosens up, falling forward in a fluid, oddly graceful motion. Digging in his pockets: a Swiss Army knife, a small cube wrapped in what probably isn’t wax paper. He holds the cube close to his face, delicately unwrapping it.

“Good for humanoid creatures. Xagabralfao recreational activity unit. Dream-wad.” He rolls his eyes, then drifts down to the floor, his head by her knees. Multi-tool examined, all the wrong implements pulled out - was that a paint brush? - settling for the corkscrew. Digs a small chunk of it off and onto the tip of his index finger.

“Appears as mouth-plastic,” she says. Bubblegum, why…fuck it.

He holds his finger up and shrugs, mostly with his eyebrows. Normally this is where he’d be straight-backed, all angles and anxiety. Now, though, he’s just sort of. Floppy. Half-lying down, languid.

Clara, not someone to miss out on a new opportunity or back down from a competition and/or bet, shuffles herself over him, hands braced on the floor either side of his shoulders, knee between his legs, and takes his finger into her mouth.

“Vague noise of pleasure,” he says, huskily.

“Umami,” she replies. What?

She feels the TARDIS gently pressing them together (a feeling like her hair being stroked) and then retreating. The faint edges of what she assumes is a joke, but in incomprehensible mathematics.

The weird salty meat-candy still on her tongue, hair tucked ineffectively behind her ears, she bends down and kisses him. Gives it to him, as they say, apparently. The ends of everything flickering around them, cotton-mouth, a softness to the world. A forgiving kindness. The needle on the turntable hitting the label, picking up, the auto-return.

“Nice,” she says, kissing him again, the whatever-it-is dissolving between them. The universe turning. A blanket, a comfort, a skittering pressure. “Thank.”

He shrugs, charades something she doesn’t even vaguely understand. But smiles, also, his hands coming to rest on her waist, guiding her.

Something happens now, usually. But whatever. Let it ride, let it roll. Let it do thing indeed, enjoy. Aw, fuck, it’s in her head now.

“Approximation of general concept that consistent literal meaning is inherently impossible,” he whispers, as she grinds down. “Vague indication that you should proceed regardless.”

So she does.


End file.
